


Not Deep Enough

by Lil_Lycanthropy



Series: The Human!Sides College AU Verse by firesfly [1]
Category: Thomas Sanders
Genre: Anxiety, Blood, Depression, Gen, Gore, Hospital, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psych Ward, Self-Harm, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Therapy, This is some pretty heavy stuff, heed the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-14 14:17:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11784903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lil_Lycanthropy/pseuds/Lil_Lycanthropy
Summary: Virgil can't take it anymore. Graduating was just icing on the cake of his crappy life. Dealing with the death of his cousin, his new diagnosis of depression and PTSD, and fear of the future leads him to commit an irreversible mistake.





	1. Slipping

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princelogical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princelogical/gifts).



> So, yet another work for [firesfly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/firesfly/pseuds/firesfly)'s [Human!Sides College Verse AU](http://archiveofourown.org/series/721698). This one deals with a lot of touchy stuff, so make sure you stay safe while reading. Even I had to take breaks while writing, and had to censor some of the gore. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Graduating should be easy, especially when you’ve already finished all your classes. All you need to do is receive the diploma, shake hands, then walk away.

It should be simple.

So why was Virgil stuck on the floor of the bathroom as the anxiety crashed over him in never-ending waves?

It wasn’t as if he wasn’t prepared for his grad. His parents had definitely gone a bit overboard, yet still tried to be conscientious of his anxiety over the whole situation. They had the gown nicely pressed, his hat customized with a little storm cloud and rainbow on top, along with an after-party with just them and the dog eating cake and pizza. A nice, relaxing evening. Nothing to worry about.

Except Virgil’s mind was reeling with the big question that haunts all graduates: _what comes next?_

Due to some... _tragic_ events that took place in sophomore year, Virgil was a bit behind on planning for his future. The horrific memories still took up the bulk of his thoughts. Thinking about the unfortunate death of his cousin and dealing with the legal and psychological consequences left very little time to think about his future. He had done the minimum of sending in applications for several colleges, and thankfully, one had accepted despite the charges.

But just being accepted into a school alone wouldn’t secure his future. He could fail very easily, especially with everything going on in his mind. Even now, the nightmares still plagued him almost every night. His therapist tried to help, but all that had really happened was a diagnosis rather than actual progress.

The diagnosis? Clinical depression, along with a severe case of PTSD.

Perfect.

Part of the problem was that no one knew how to deal with it. Sure, people tried to help, but no one would truly understand how much it messes you up to see a child’s head completely mangled, and to have it be your fault.

The pressure was building now. Virgil felt it over his whole body, and the intrusive thoughts were screaming in his head. His skin itched all over with the need to do something, _anything_ , to distract him from the crushing weight of his fear.

As his mind turned to darker thoughts, it seemed as if there was only one way to solve the issue.

Honestly, who would even care if he died right now? He didn’t have any friends. His dog might notice, but Smokey was just a dog. She would move on pretty easily. Parents? Sure, they’d be a bit upset; raising a kid for eighteen years, only to have all that progress erased? That would be traumatic, to say in the least.

But then again, the thought that they’d be devastated is under the assumption that they still liked him after everything he’d done.

Maybe he was doomed to a life that would end at his own hands. So far, it hadn’t exactly been great—plenty of irreversible mistakes, too many problems that no one could fix. He was just bringing everyone down.

Everyone Virgil knew hated him, except his parents and Smokey (or did they? He wasn’t sure). He wouldn’t last three days in the “real” world, not with all his history. It was like he was teetering on the edge of insanity, and there was nothing he could do.

Concern gave way to apathy. He didn’t care anymore. Not about his family, not about his future, and certainly not about himself. Why should he? Who would miss him when he’s gone?

Sighing heavily, he pulled out a pocket knife. It was something he bought in secret for the sole purpose of ending his life someday. He didn’t expect to be using it this soon, but if anyone knew about the unpredictable turns life could give, it was Virgil.

The blade glinted under the bright bathroom light when he flipped it out. It was remarkably sharp for such a tiny thing. Hopefully, it would get the job done.

Looking at the time, he saw the clock tick to 6:00. His class should be walking up now, and in about thirty minutes, he would hopefully be dead.

Virgil made a quick plan in his head. _Four vertical cuts, two on each arm, going along the major blood vessels you can see or feel. Cut all the way down, as far as you can go. Lose blood quick enough that death will be painful, but effective. Deep so it doesn’t take too long. Do it in the bathtub so you don’t ruin the floor and make a mess._

Despite the calmness in his head, the pressure still remained on his chest while the pit in his stomach grew. Was there a better way to do this? A gun might be quicker; Virgil knew firsthand how efficient guns were at erasing life in a blink. But he had no access to them, especially after the incident, and he didn’t want to deal with them ever again.

Virgil climbed into the tub, taking off the dress shirt. It would just get in the way, or even act as a tourniquet if he rolled up the sleeves. No point prolonging the inevitable.

He started with the right arm. The knife bit deep, and blood began flowing out immediately. It almost resembled a waterfall, the way it steadily moved out of his body and began to form a puddle on the tub floor. The pain was almost unbearable, and he gasped aloud a few times, but continued on to the next cut.

The blade pressed down beside the first cut, harder this time, and blood sprayed out. He continued to slide the knife through his skin, despite the little spurts. The blood pulsated out of him in time with his heart, growing faster as he became more panicked.

His thoughts began piling up again, before he heard scratching outside the door.

Smokey.

Smokey was whining at him and clawing at the door, as if sensing something was wrong.

Virgil breathed sharply as he remembered all the reasons he hadn’t tried to kill himself. His family would be crestfallen, and Smokey...

Smokey would lose her best friend.

He realized something incredibly important, and possibly too late: _he didn’t want to die._

The pool grew, soaking Virgil’s pants. It was messy, blood was everywhere, and tears began to fall from his face, adding to the chaos.

He didn’t want to die.

He didn’t want to die.

He didn’t want to die, especially not in such a graphic fashion. After his cousin’s death, how could he ever have thought that this was a reasonable reaction? Death affected everyone negatively, so why did he think his wouldn’t?

Blood was still gushing out, and he wanted to throw up. Bile crept up his mouth, and he forced it back with a sob. He had to call for help somehow, or he would die in this bath tub in his own blood.

Adrenaline pumped through his body. The threat of death was imminent, which sent his whole body into overdrive. Blood poured out faster as his heart rate increased, which in turn made him even more terrified. It was a cycle that he desperately needed to stop.  
He had to get out of that tub.

Virgil tried to shakily stand up, only to slip on the gore. He crashed back down, hitting his head on the edge.

Groaning in pain, he attempted to stand up. He clawed the sides, pulling himself out.

“Okay, what now, what now...” he whispered to himself, trying to think of anything while working himself into a frenzy. Grabbing the nearby dress shirt, which was still crumpled up on the floor, he pressed it to his wrist. “Think, think, think.” His breaths were coming in short, pained wheezes, and black spots were taking over his vision as his body lost oxygen.

He knew he was dying, and there was nothing he could do.

Suddenly, there was a banging on the door. “Verge, honey, are you in there?”

“Mom,” he called out, too weak to do anything else.

“Are you alright? We were worried sick when we didn’t see you up at the front. Can I come in?”  
Virgil reached up as best as he could, just falling short of the door handle. He grasped onto the counter and pulled up, unlocking the door.

“Mom...please help.”

She came in the door, promptly gasping at the sight and falling next to Virgil.

Her son, her only child, was dry-heaving on the floor with a sopping red shirt pressed against his arm. There was blood all over the bathroom, the biggest amount congealing in the tub. Verge looked exhausted, in pain, and far too pale.

She took a shaky breath as she gathered her boy in her arms. “Alright, hon, just keep breathing, I’m gonna get you some help, just press that to your arm...” She rambled on with instructions, grabbing a towel from the nearby cupboard and wrapping his wrist.

Virgil’s dad was still downstairs, deciding it best to wait and see if his son just needed to calm down. It wasn’t optimal for Verge to miss his graduation, but he had been through a lot and it was somewhat understandable.

All hopes of it being simple nerves were completely dashed when his wife frantically called him into the bathroom a minute later.

He raced up the stairs, still in his dress shoes, and entered the bathroom for the first time.

It was chaos. His wife was on the floor with Verge, who looked nearly unconscious, holding a towel wrapped around his arm that was already stained a deep red. “Please, call an ambulance, he needs help.”

He pulled out his phone, dialling nine-one-one, trying to focus on how to help rather than the blood that was dripping through the towel onto the floor.

“I need an ambulance. My son, I think he just tried to kill himself...”


	2. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil has to deal with the consequences of his actions.

Bright, flashing lights. Loud noises mixed with soft voices. People touching him. Applying pressure to his arm.

That hurt. 

Virgil’s eyes flickered from side to side, at the two paramedics who were trying to save his life. 

One noticed he was awake—a gruff-looking person with a beard and large hands. “Hey, kid, stay with us, okay?”  


Virgil furrowed his brows, trying to make sense of the words. His entire being was conflicted. He wanted to die, but then he didn’t. If he had succeeded, he wouldn’t have been in pain right now. He also wouldn’t have seen his mother breaking down into his father’s chest, or his dad’s terrified expression as he was wheeled onto the ambulance, tears just beginning to fall.

His own eyes filled with tears as he passed back out.

* * *

 

Virgil awoke once while they were working on him. A pint of blood was being pumped into him at a steady pace. On his other arm, they were busy stitching him up. He could see the needle move in and out, and he felt some of the pressure, but other than that, he felt nothing. 

_They must’ve numbed me up,_ he thought.

_Funny._

_They wouldn’t even have to use medicine for that._

* * *

 

After what felt like seconds, Virgil woke up again.

He was in a clean room, hooked up tin several places. Two electrodes were attached to his chest, and he had several IVs in his left arm and hand. His right arm was bandaged neatly, but still throbbed.

His parents were both passed out on nearby chairs, their faces still puffy and red from crying.

At the sight, a lump developed in Virgil’s throat. 

He did this to them. He was the reason they were so stressed all the time, and rather than dealing with his issues in a healthy or productive way, he scared them half to death and created even more problems.

Along with causing them mental anguish, he was also in physical pain. His arm felt weighted, and twisting it caused the dull throb to turn into a shooting pain. A gasp tore its way from his lips at the unexpected soreness, so he decided to leave his arm alone. 

Unfortunately, his gasp awoke both his parents. They immediately came over to him, smothering him with hugs and affection. It quickly became too much to handle. He couldn’t take it. Not after everything he just put them through. He didn’t deserve their love and affection.

“Please, stop.” They ignored him.

“I said _stop!_ ” Virgil shoved them both away with his good arm.

The looked completely taken aback at his behaviour. “Sweetie, I don’t understand...” his mother said.

Virgil took a deep breath. “I think it’s best you two just leave now.”

More tears stained her cheeks, and his father reluctantly steered them both out of the room.

* * *

 

Shortly after he banished his parents, a nurse came in, followed by a professional-looking woman with a clipboard.

The nurse took his vitals silently, while the other one settled on the chair his mother was sleeping in not twenty minutes ago.

“Hello, my name is Dr. MacIntosh, and I’m here to do your mandatory psych eval.”

Virgil glared at her, before slumping back into his cot. 

“Now, it says here that you attempted suicide by slitting your wrists.”  


“Yeah.”

“Do you want to tell me why?”  


“No.”

She didn't look surprised at his answer.  “Well, it will make things a bit easier for me if you can tell me at least some of your thoughts and motives. I know from your file that you have some depression and PTSD. Do you believe those played a major role in your decision to try to end your own life?”

Virgil sighed and put his head in the hand the nurse wasn’t working on. “Yeah, probably.”

“Okay, can you tell me a bit about what you were feeling when you were trying to kill yourself?”

She looked expectantly from over her clipboard, studying him for possible clues. 

He took a deep breath. “I wanted to end my life because I’m a piece of crap person who doesn’t deserve it. Happy?”  


“Not especially, what with that news. Question for you: how do you feel about inpatient? Would you consent to staying in the psych ward for a while? The period right after a suicide attempt makes one feel extremely vulnerable, which means the danger of another suicide attempt is heightened. However, it’s also the best time to start therapy so you can build up from rock bottom.”

Virgil thought about it for a bit. “I’m already in therapy.”

Dr. MacIntosh smiled at him. “It doesn’t appear to have been very helpful, now, does it?”

He conceded her a point. Would going inpatient be a good idea? He didn’t want people to see him as “crazy” or “mental”. 

But he _did_ need help, and he was worried that he may in fact try again—or, at the very least, engage in some unhealthy activities. Maybe this was the best way for him to sort things through, without any pressure to do anything except get better.

“I think I’d be open to it...”

* * *

 

Roughly two weeks later, and a nurse was in his room, snipping his stitches.

“It looks pretty good, but you still have to keep it clean. The people around here should be able to help if you need it, but make sure you wash it with warm water once or twice a day.”

The young nurse pulled out the last one, then slipped away, whistling as they rolled their little medical cart.

Virgil stared down at his arm. The cuts were scabbed over, forming two vertical lines of red down his wrist, and he felt the urge to rip them open again. It would be so easy to pretend he was better, then go home and end it.

But he couldn’t do that to his parents. Not again.

* * *

 

After three months, Virgil was still in the psych ward. His parents hadn’t visited once in that time.

Then again, Virgil hadn’t made contact with them since he actually tried to slit his wrists.

He was doodling on a paper with a sharpie—just a little storm cloud. He was going to add a rainbow, but then he remembered back to his graduation. That's what the design had been on his cap—a little cloud and rainbow.

The subconscious negative connotations he formed surrounding his grad apparel was almost crippling if he thought about it too long. Remembering the fear, the blood pouring out of him and being hopeless to stop it, the feeling of _dear God I’m gonna die like this_ left him short of breath.

With shaking hands, Virgil crumpled up the drawing. He turned back to the repulsive hospital food, but his appetite had fled. He pushed away the food and stood up, budging the heavy chair.

Someone immediately tried to stop him. “You have to eat your meal before you can leave.”

“Make me,” he spat, dodging past her. 

Ducking into his room, he dropped onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling. He wanted to cry. Nothing felt real, ever. The numbness that had settled around him ever since he decided to kill himself still hadn’t let up.

He just wanted to feel something again. 

Anything.

* * *

 

Six months passed with Virgil in the psych ward before they finally deemed him stable enough to be released. He began therapy directly after, and here he was, at his second session, resolutely glowering at the floor. 

“Virgil, don’t shut me out. We were having a nice, calm conversation. What happened?”

He scowled before answering. “You mentioned my parents.”

“Yes, I did. You said you were on good terms.”  


Virgil scoffed. “Yeah. _Were_. I haven’t seen them since...” He swallowed the lump in his throat, but tried to cover it up. “...I haven’t seen them in months.”

His therapist caught his slip. “You haven’t seen them since you attempted suicide?”  


At those words, his throat closed up completely and he couldn’t breathe. Confusion as to what was happening mingled with his panic, creating a cocktail of negative emotions. He felt like he was dying all over again, which did nothing to lessen his distress.

His mouth broke open in pants, and he began convulsing into the uncomfortable couch as he lost control of his body. It felt like there was a vice on his chest, squeezing the life out of him, and the constant pit in his stomach seemed to drop. His arm throbbed painfully, and he clutched at his chest.

“Virgil, I need you to take a deep breath with me please. In for four seconds, come on. Hold for seven. Out for eight.”

It took him a while to comprehend what she was saying, but he soon started to follow her counting, struggling to breathe in, but trying nonetheless. Eventually, he calmed down enough that his breaths were coming at a normal pace, and his therapist stood up.

“Where’re you going?” he rasped out.

“Just going to fetch you a drink. I’ll be right here.”

She returned a moment later with a glass of water. “May I ask what caused that?

Virgil hesitated. “My parents. What—what was it?”

“It looked like an anxiety attack. Have you not had one before?” Virgil shook his head. “We can look into that, maybe get you on some meds if it becomes a common occurrence. So, talking about your parents caused it. Why?”

“I don’t know. I feel—I feel like they hate me. I mean, they have to, right? After everything I put them through? They probably don’t even love me anymore or something stupid like that. I want to see them again, but I don’t know if they’ll even want to.”

She hummed at his response. “Well, you never know until you try.”

* * *

 

A few weeks later, and Virgil was sitting alone at the park. He had called his parents to see him, but they still hadn’t shown up.

“Verge?”

He turned around to see his mom rushing over and pulling him into a tight hug. She placed kisses all over him, and tears began to fall from her face.

“We missed you so much, sweetie, you scared us both on that night and we just wanted to see you, I’m so glad you’re getting better now.”

Virgil tugged her back, burying his face into her shoulder. Her sweater quickly became dampened as he finally let go and began sobbing, the relief of seeing her again flooding through his veins. “I missed you, too. So much. But I—I didn’t know if you wanted to see me.”

She squeezed him tighter as he said that. “We can all get through this together, and all of us support you. We love you so, so much. We always will, no matter what.”

Virgil saw his dad behind her when she let go. He was a little nervous about how he would react, then—

His fears were put to rest as his father hugged him harder than his mother, and whispered in his ear, “I’m so proud of you, son.”

Even Smokey joined in, jumping up at him when she was finally close enough. “Yeah, love you too, Smokey,” he said, bending down to give her a pat on the head as she licked every inch of his face.

In that moment, Virgil swore to never try to kill himself ever again. He would have to work hard, learn how to cope, open up to his therapist and her suggestions, and try to communicate with those around him. It would take a long time, but he was willing to try. It was worth it for his family.

It was worth it to live.

**Author's Note:**

> If you ever feel like you're where Virgil is, I recommend getting help before you get to that point. Talk with your doctor, or a therapist if you can.
> 
> Here are some hotlines if you need them:
> 
> Australia: (13-11-14)  
> Canada: (1-800-668-6868)  
> New Zealand: (0800-543-354)  
> UK: (0800-068-41-41)  
> USA: (1-800-273-8255)


End file.
